


and a slow watch

by Anonymous



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Marriage, brief mention of Ghassan-typical child abuse, shmaltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23913499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "You are, as you say, the Emir."  Jamshid's voice was bitter.  "You will be expected to make a strategic alliance, and to provide an heir to the throne, but that is marriage.  Marriage isn't the same as these--these dalliances--""It's not," Muntadhir agreed.  "So, if it would put your mind to rest, we'll get married."
Relationships: Jamshid e-Pramukh/Muntadhir al Qahtani
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38
Collections: Anonymous





	and a slow watch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the scene in City of Brass where Ali's like "lol it's not there's anyone else you want to marry" and Muntadhir has a brief moment of staring off into the distance while The Sound of Silence starts to play.

"She's a courtesan," Muntadhir said, exasperated. He had not been expecting an argument when Jamshid had requested they return to his chambers. "My attendance at her salon brings her more prestige and more patrons, and therefore more money, so of course she likes having me there. It's a business transaction to Khanzada, nothing more."

Jamshid shook his head, looking far more stubborn than he had when he'd insisted Muntadhir leave with him earlier. At Khanzada's, or anywhere else where he might see Muntadhir flirting with another, he always kept his face carefully blank. "Have you asked her if it's merely a matter of coins changing hands?"

"And why would I do that, when she'd only tell me what she thought I wanted to hear?" 

"Do you want to hear that she loves you?" 

He could be so naive, sometimes. Even Muntadhir's little brother would have been too jaded to believe that Khanzada loved him, and Ali was all of eighteen and had never laid eyes on a courtesan in his life. "But she _doesn't_. Don't be so ridiculous. And--" Muntadhir reached out to touch Jamshid, to reel him in by the elbow. "--don't be jealous. She doesn't mean anything to me. I need to deflect any rumors to keep _you_ safe. I wouldn't have it be this way, but I told you." He could hear himself, on the verge of begging, but he'd get down on both knees if he had to for Jamshid. "I'm the Emir. There are people who would hurt you to get to me, and I refuse to let that happen."

Jamshid raised an eyebrow. Muntadhir got ready to kneel. "You're the Emir of Daevabad."

And the person Muntadhir was most afraid would hurt Jamshid was the king of Daevabad, but he couldn't say that. He loathed himself occasionally for his fear of his own father. He knew it was not how a man should feel about his father, and he knew that it was not how fathers should make their own sons feel about them, and he knew Jamshid could never understand. "I'll stop seeing Khanzada, then."

"That would be cruel," said Jamshid, refusing to let go of the ludicrous impression that Muntadhir was anything more than her favorite patron.

_So I'll be cruel to her,_ Muntadhir was on the brink of saying, his forehead lowered against Jamshid's. _I will be cruel to anyone if it means I avoid hurting you._ But he knew that that sort of declaration would not impress Jamshid. "I do not want to--"

"Yes," said Jamshid. "I know--we discussed this." He swallowed, and his gaze slid sideways, avoiding Muntadhir's. "And, yes, I knew. You are, as you say, the Emir." His voice was bitter. "You will be expected to make a strategic alliance, and to provide an heir to the throne, but that is marriage. Marriage isn't the same as these--these dalliances--"

"It's not," Muntadhir agreed. "So, if it would put your mind to rest, we'll get married."

Jamshid's eyes found his again, and widened. "How drunk are you?"

"About the usual amount," said Muntadhir. Slightly less than the usual amount, but the second he'd had the thought and said the words he'd felt completely intoxicated. "We could, you know. There are two Divasti epic poems that I know of where men marry one another."

"That's poetry," said Jamshid, quietly, like he'd been thinking about it too. "From at least a thousand years ago."

"That's not a no," said Muntadhir. He tilted Jamshid's face towards his. He truly hadn't had that much wine, but his mouth was suddenly dry, his head pounding. He loved Jamshid, trusted him as much as he could trust anyone in this city. In the very beginning, of course, he'd had his suspicions, that Kaveh might be pressing his son for state secrets, much as Ghassan wanted whatever information about the Nahids that Muntadhir could extract from Jamshid--not that Muntadhir ever did ask, putting his father off with half-lies, protesting that Jamshid had been all of seven when Manizheh and Rustam were murdered by the ifrit. But even those suspicions hadn't lasted long. Jamshid was not an accomplished liar, and he was too good, too kind, to use anyone like that. "Is there any reason we couldn't?"

"Daevas don't practice multiple marriage," said Jamshid, looking directly at Muntadhir now. Reflected fires danced in his eyes, and he was choosing his words carefully again. "And you are going to have to marry someone else."

He could always abdicate the throne first. There was a slight chance his father wouldn't kill him out of sheer gratitude that now his favorite son could become king. "Then this will be my only Daeva marriage," he said. "As for Geziris, well, traditionally all honors accrue to the first wife--"

Jamshid flicked his shoulder. "Be serious."

"I am serious." Muntadhir took the hand Jamshid had flicked him with and kissed the back of it. "I want to give my heart to you, my flame to you."

"It's a binding oath." said Jamshid sternly.

"And I'd make it," Muntadhir said, kissing the inside of Jamshid's wrist and preparing to go even further when something occurred to him. "Do you not want to marry me?" He tried to keep his voice even. He hadn't thought about it before, but he'd meant the proposal, and he didn't know if he could bear it if Jamshid said no, but he certainly couldn't blame him if Jamshid said no. 

Jamshid blinked rapidly. He was paler than normal, even with the fires in his quarters running high. "Of course I want to marry you," he said. "But I studied at the temple, and our marriage may be more than legally binding. The old vows sound like a spell, and I don't know if there are effects from it."

"Oh." Muntadhir grasped Jamshid's hand even tighter, giddy with relief. "I'm willing to risk that, since I'd be the one profaning the vows, between being a non-believer and the eventual bigamy."

"You really are a giant idiot," said Jamshid, but fondly, and pulled his head down for a kiss.

Muntadhir kissed him back, and gratefully, and then, quite a bit later, when Jamshid had knocked off Muntadhir's turban and Muntadhir had shoved Jamshid's jacket from his shoulders, and they were on Jamshid's bed, which was a great deal less comfortable than Muntadhir's, though he only cared about that in the mornings, Jamshid lifted his mouth from Muntadhir's collarbone and said, "Let's do it now."

"Yes," Muntadhir groaned, and then realized Jamshid meant the marriage. "Here?"

"No, let's slip away to the temple in the dead of night and tell Kartir of our wishes so he can order flowers to fill the halls and a train of elephants to dance us out. Yes, here. I studied for the priesthood. I can perform these rites."

"I imagine you can," said Muntadhir, kissing his knuckles "You look rather divine to me."

Jamshid snorted, then climbed off him. Muntadhir scrambled to follow him to the small fire altar he still kept burning in the corner.

"You know the words," said Jamshid, taking a handful of ash and tracing Divasti letters onto Muntadhir's skin. It tickled, and he tried not to laugh or sneeze.

"Should I," he asked, gesturing to the ash and then to Jamshid.

Jamshid looked startled for a second, and then said, "You can." He gave Muntadhir more ashes, told him what to write. It must have been an abbreviation or code of some sort, Muntadhir could make neither head nor tail of it, but he wrote the characters in a shaky script across Jamshid's forehead and cheeks. 

Jamshid muttered something in ancient Divasti, a call to their ancestors to bless this union. Considering his ancestors were proud Daevas, and Muntadhir's were al Qahtani usurpers, it was highly unlikely they would, but it was a matter of form. Muntadhir understood matters of form.

"Say it," Jamshid said, when the blessing was done. The color was high in his cheeks, his eyes dark and intense.

"I give you my heart," said Muntadhir. He couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. "I give you my flame."

"I give you my heart," Jamshid repeated, touching his own breast. "I give you my flame."

The fire in the altar chose that moment to flare, and Muntadhir startled.

"I wasn't expecting that," Jamshid confessed, shakily. "But I suppose we're married now."

That brought a smile to Muntadhir's face. "We are," he said, and kissed Jamshid again, the ash smearing all over his arms as Muntadhir put his hands on them, and on his mouth, when Jamshid put that on Muntadhir's face.

What he was feeling now could have been a mystical bond, but then again, every moment he was with Jamshid felt magical.

They tumbled back into bed, losing the rest of their clothing in a hurry. Muntadhir reached for the oil, but Jamshid got to it first, rolling some between his hands to warm it up. "Allow me," he said, sliding a finger into Muntadhir. "I should provide for my husband."

And his breath hitched as he said it, and Muntadhir's breath hitched too, because they were _married_. It made him happier than he'd realized it would, happier, somehow, than he'd ever thought he'd be. He woke up in the morning with Jamshid next to him, the royal robes flung over them both as a blanket, his turban serving as Jamshid's pillow, and sacred ash everywhere, and he found himself smiling.

"What," said Jamshid, slightly muddled with sleep.

"I think marriage suits me," said Muntadhir, and kissed him.

"Perhaps it's sobriety," mumbled Jamshid, but he was blushing, and he tangled his hand in Muntadhir's hair. "Go. You have court this morning, husband, and can't afford to be late again."

"You're sleeping on my turban, husband," said Muntadhir, "and court's not for another two and a half hours, my heart, my flame."

He was late to court by an hour, and his father glared at him, but Muntadhir did not care. The elation of his marriage, the memory of Jamshid's finger reverently tracing ash upon his skin, buoyed him through Ghassan's disapproval, some disastrous trade negotiation, Ali's interminable lectures on taxation, and some salons that managed to somehow be even more boring than the various different ways the merchant classes were defrauding Daevabad's treasury. It was a high that lasted two whole weeks before one morning when his father sent for him and Muntadhir knew, from how early the message came and the fear on the messenger's face, that it boded ill.

Someone must have found out, he thought, as he padded down the halls, careful not to let his panic show. He could imagine how this would go: he'd had years to imagine his father coldly informing him that the Daevas would not stand for it. One of their own, the very son of the Grand Wazir, ripped from the temple, debauched and defiled by an al Qahtani prince half again his age. This time he supposed his father would also yell at him for perverting the Daevas' sacred rites, never mind that Muntadhir had history on his side, that said rites had only grown more exclusionary to compete with the djinns' professions of piety in the first place. They weren't living a thousand years in the past, and the Daevas in the present would take extreme offense. And to his father, Daevabad always came first.

What frightened Muntadhir most, when the doors opened onto his father's study and he saw that no one else was there, not Kaveh, not even Wajed, was that if he was to be exiled, he might never see Jamshid again.

"Sit," his father said, and Muntadhir did, petrified. But he looked at his father's hand and then his face and saw that Ghassan's anger was not directed at him.

"Abba," he said, trying not to show any relief, anything that would have made his father wonder what it was Muntadhir had been expecting this meeting to be about. But there was something distant in Ghassan's gray eyes, as though he wasn't seeing Muntadhir there, not really.

Muntadhir wished there were servants there to pour him a glass of wine to steady his hands. He fumbled and nearly dropped the scroll when his father flung it at him, and when he first managed to unfurl it, the scroll was upside down.

"What am I looking at, Abba?" he asked, turning the scroll the right way up. He'd only learned to read and write at Zaynab's insistence, and it wasn't second nature to him like it was to his younger siblings, and this scroll seemed particularly dense.

"A report on the Tanzeem's accounting techniques."

Muntadhir blinked, about to ask his father if he was sure that it was him he'd meant to summon and not Ali, and then the words began to make sense, and he knew why Ali was not here. "Oh," he said, and wished for wine all the more fervently.


End file.
